The Guilt of the Innocent
by 33zero33
Summary: Everyone figured the war had ended, that what happened had happened and they could learn to live with it. They learned to deal with loss and heartbreak, but could they cope, years later, with old wounds being reopened?


The Guilt of the Innocent

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Prologue

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A puddle of red pooled at the ground, yet the familiar red, hot pain associated with that color was absent. A heavy silence filled the air as time paused, just for the two of them. She fell to the ground, her lips forming unspoken words, he smiling at his victory and his loss. Their eyes met and for centuries they gazed at each other, reliving their past with each other. Then, the tide of time came crashing back upon them, and they broke their gaze. He turned uncomfortably; she closed her eyes forever.

The rain splattered upon the sidewalks, turning the night atmosphere into one that was dreary and sorrowful. It blurred the image of the two figures, standing just before the entrance of the cemetery.

"So you'll be leaving?" the girl questioned her older brother.

"Yeah. I have to. Tell your dad and not to worry, okay?" replied the older brother.

" 'Your dad'."

"I don't deserve to be called your brother anymore. Not after what I've done."

"B-But it wasn't your fault. You didn't know that she'd die. No one blames you."

"I shouldn't have gave away her location," said the brother in a monotone voice. "If it weren't for me, she never would have died. She would still be here."

"You weren't the one that killed her," protested the sister. "It was _his_ fault."

The brother shrugged.

"Well, either way, this is goodbye," he said, turning to go.

"No!" cried the girl, clutching her brother tightly. "Don't go! I-I might never see you again. Can't you stay? They won't really kill you. They only threatened. You can hide or something."

"I can't do that," replied the brother, tugging his arm from the girl's grasp. "Just forget me. That would be best. They might use you to get to me. Forget you ever had a brother."

"I can't do that," said the girl, fighting back tears. "I can't do that."

"You'll have to. Look after Dad. You're in charge now."

At this, the sister could no longer restrain her tears and she wept for her brother, her sister, but mostly for herself and her selfish want of her brother to stay.

With all the will power he had, Kurosaki Ichigo turned from his sister and walked away. He passed through the cemetery, saying goodbye to his beloved mother and his sister, Yuzu. He momentarily stood by their twin graves, then walked away toward Hirako Shinji, who awaited him, not once looking back.

If Kurosaki had known who was hiding among the graves of the deceased, perhaps he would have lost his temper and destroyed him, thus ensuring that all the troubles that would follow would cease to happen. But his grief kept him from noticing the two pale eyes that watched him from behind a tall grave marker. As he turned, the owner of these eyes stood up, walking listlessly in the general direction from which Kurosaki had came. A streetlight made him visible. He was a young boy, no more than seven with cold, pale eyes. He seemed to float as he strode through the streets, undetected by the innocents who lay sleeping on this raining night. He needn't worry for the humans to see him anyway. Whether he was a shinigami, arrancar, vizard, or something else, he didn't know and didn't care to know. He had forgotten who or what he was a long time ago. The only recollection he had was a door, no more like a gate. A gate guarded by a skeleton whose claws burned into his flesh.

He turned a corner, not knowing where he was going, but feeling as if he had been here once, as if once, he had walked the same streets, pursuing someone. He walked on, trusting this intuition of his, and came upon the front door of a shop. His hand moved by itself, knocking on the door, which was answered by a boy who was perhaps a few years older than he.

"What do you want?" demanded the boy, sleepily. "We're closed. Go away."

"Urahara Kisuke," he whispered, his lips, like his hand, moving on its own.

"What'd you say?" asked the boy, taking a sudden interest in this odd, drenched child.

"I want to see Urahara Kisuke," he replied, fixing his pale, cold eyes upon the older boy.

"Well, he ain't seeing you," snapped the boy, uncomfortable under the younger boy's gaze.

"I want to see Urahara Kisuke," he repeated.

"And I said he ain't seeing you," yelled the boy.

"What's happening?" asked a sleepy man, coming to the door. "Who's this?"

"Just some weirdo," muttered the boy. "I'll get rid of him."

"What does he want?" asked the man, frowning slightly.

"To see you," replied the boy reluctantly.

"Well then," exclaimed the man enthusiastically, "come on in then, kid. What's your name?"

"Train," he replied, not returning the enthusiasm offered.

"Now there's an odd name," said Urahara. "Jinta, go get some dry clothes for Train."

"Right," replied the boy, running off.

"So, Train," said Urahara seriously. "Who are you?"

"I don't know," he replied.

"Do you want to know?"

"No."

"Then why do you want to see me?"

"I don't know."

"Really? How did you find me?"

"It just happened."

"It did now, did it. Do you need a place to stay?"

"I suppose."

"Do you want to stay here?"

"No."

"Then I ask you again. Why are you here?"

"I should be leaving now."

"To where?"

"Anywhere."

He turned and left, leaving Urahara standing behind, confused.

Hitsugaya Toshiro lay in the guestroom of Urahara's shop, unable to sleep. Images of his former lieutenant and colleagues haunted him. Screams bounced within his ears and he thought he saw red. Perhaps he was all that remained of the shinigami, the loyal ones that is. With the death of the captains, many assumed that Aizen had won the war and he had. The weaker shinigami changed their loyalties and served Aizen and the ones who rebelled were killed. The vizard (Shinki... Shinji... he kept forgetting his name), Kurosaki, Urahara, and himself were the only ones who had fought in the war and survived. Kurosaki's and his survival was based on luck, he supposed. If Ichimaru and Aizen hadn't had a falling out, they might have killed both Kurosaki and Hitsugaya. He wasn't there to see it, but Urahara told him the two of them were really going at each other without holding back. There was a blinding flash of energy and when it had cleared, Ichimaru was gone and Aizen was lying bleeding and unconscious on the ground, but alive.

This was what bothered Hitsugaya the most. There was no proof that Ichimaru was dead. Everyone had assumed he had died, but there was no proof at all, meaning that traitor could still be alive.

Below, he could hear Urahara talking with someone. He couldn't distinguish any words, but the voices were loud and clear. He recognized the deeper voice as Urahara's and the higher one as a child's. There was something disturbingly familiar about the latter voice, a familiar pausing of speech as if the speaker was evaluating his options, as if the speaker knew the response to his words. Where had he heard it? Try as he might, Hitsugaya couldn't attach the voice to an owner. He fell asleep, antagonizing over this.

In the next room, Kurosaki Isshin also lay awake in a guestroom, unable to fall asleep. His son and daughter had gone out some time ago and have not yet returned. Hearing Urahara's conversation end, he stood up and headed toward his friend.

"Who was that?" he queried.

"Train," replied Urahara, shutting the door.

"Train?" asked Isshin. "That's an odd name."

"Yes," mused Urahara, more to himself than to Isshin. "He might be a yokai, but what is he doing here?"

"A yokai?"

"Yeah. He gave all the signs of a very young yokai."

"Which is…?"

"Cluelessness. Not knowing what he's doing. They lose it after a while, when they grow a little older."

"I still don't know what yokai are."

Urahara grinned, removing two teacups from the cupboard.

"Well?" pressed Isshin.

"In a nutcase, they are the result of the 'bad' shinigami or hollows," said Urahara, pouring tea into the cups and offering one to Isshin.

"I never heard of anything like that."

"Well, you joined the 13 court squads late," answered Urahara, sipping his tea. "You see, yokai aren't really the shinigami, hollow, or whatever. They're more like the guilt of what they used to be, so the only emotions they feel are the negative ones."

"The guilt?"

"Yes. It's kind of like having all your faults manifest itself in the form of a being called a yokai."

"So everyone has a yokai counterpart?"

"No. Only the ones that are considered as really bad."

"By who?"

"The Yokai king and his Royal Guards."

"The yokai king? You're not making any sense, Kisuke."

"Yeah. The yokai king is kind of like the opposite of the Spirit king. You know, like hollows are the opposite of shinigami. Arrancar to vizards. That sort of thing."

"And yokai live on a different plane?"

"Usually, yes, but the strong ones can cross the planes."

"I see."

"Also, yokai can't be killed in the same way you and I are killed. They only die when they admit their guilt for their crimes."

"And you're sure this Train is one?"

"I said he might be, but a very young one. He's probably only a few months old."

"He sounded like he was older."

"Yes. Yokai age differently."

"Really? So, do they-"

The door was pulled open, interrupting Isshin, as Kurosaki Karin walked in, completely soaked and had tear-stained eyes.

"He left at last, didn't he?" asked Urahara quietly.

"Yes," whispered Karin, biting her lower lip, a habit she had developed ever since Yuzu had died.

"I suppose it's for the best," continued Urahara. "They would have 'disposed of him' if he had stayed."

"It was only a threat."

"You never know, Karin," said Isshin, sipping his tea solemnly. "Aizen has such a twisted mind... He might track Ichigo down anyway."

It had been so long since Aizen Sosuke had strolled along the covered hallways of the first company office. He remembered his first time walking along this path. He had been a young lieutenant, about to become a captain. It was funny, he thought, how he came from being an unimportant nobody to the conqueror of Soul Society, although Ichimaru _had_ done most of the scheming involved with its downfall. But it didn't matter. Gin was dead, or at least he must be, and he, Aizen, was alive. The survivor gets the credit. This wasn't fair, but oh well, the world wasn't fair.

It really was inevitable, mused Aizen. His lieutenant had been too whimsical, not having any reasons for his actions other than "because I want to". In the end, this was what brought about his death.

Aizen walked into the office, now redesigned as a meeting room. His espada and Tousen were already seated around the table, awaiting his arrival. Smiling, Aizen sat in his seat at the end of the table, reflecting on all his achievements as he began the meeting.


End file.
